Arturi Valdaska


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Arturi Valdaska

Unread post by Requiem »



Medium length and raven black.


Golden yellow with a faint glow, betraying celestial heritage with an animalistic bearing; akin to a lion.





182 lbs.

Distinguishing Features:

Due to his celestial heritage, Arturi bears the birthmarks that some Aasimar are known to posess. Visible upon first glance, a Silver Star of Selune can be seen on the back of his right hand that spans across it's width and a smaller star on the left of his neck. They are expressed similarly to mundane tattoo ink, save for a subtle shine that dances across them when Arturi moves about in direct moonlight. The more exposed Arturi's body is, more Silver Stars are noticed upon his torso and arms to account for seven total.


His hands are notably rough, callused and weathered, dotted with faint superficial scars and burn marks, betraying a life that has known physical labor.


--Arturi's background is portrayed by testimonials from different people he has crossed paths with. They are told to a theoretical listener, as if they have inquired about Arturi. It leaves a lot up to imagination while giving unique insight and perspective into the character's past.--

Orjhyn Bhikesh, a Gur from the Bhikesh caravan. Spoken to on the side of a road.
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"...Valdaska. That's a name I have not heard in some time. We have not crossed paths with that family for many seasons, many moons. None I have spoke with have heard of their whereabouts as of late. The Valdaska caravan is a strange and isolated one, even by our people's ways. Some tell the Moon Maiden saw fit to punish them for some deed. A few say they are trying to escape a debt they can not repay. Others have mentioned they have turned west, to seek coin through work.

You will know them, should you meet them on an empty road or upon a forgotten path in the forest. You will need to know what to look for, however. Something to remember: while our people are the same in some ways, we do have our notable differences. There are many of them, as no two caravans are alike. You will know the family by their craft, their profession. The Valdaskas deal in war. Not fighting no, our people tend to avoid conflict when possible. That is not to say we won't defend ourselves or that there are no exceptions.

You see, wars are not fought with warriors alone. Armies need supplies, weapons, and equipment. They need horses to carry them to their supposed glory, beasts of burden to haul what they need to find it. Should fate find a soldier wounded, they will need medicines and their injuries tended. That is where the Valdaskas come in. They are camp followers, for a price. The family does well in this line of work, considering morality and loyalty has no weight for whom they offer their services. The Valdaskas however, are very selective with those they deal. They have no qualms of turning away any venture be it of their own request or that of another, offering no explanation for their reasoning.

Rumor has it that "a Valdaskan horse has never thrown a rider. A breastplate forged by their hand, never breached. That death itself asks permission to claim those under their care." You may be thinking this is all fanciful exaggeration, yes? Perhaps it is. If you don't remember anything I have spoken of here tonight, you would do well to remember this: The best stories carry a grain of truth, and that grain could be far heavier than one realizes..."

Gherod Jenkins, a travelling peddler. Spoken to at a small tavern in the country.
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"...Ahhhh...the gypsy. Arturi Valdaska? Good to know, good to know. Say, there's a trade bar in it if you can tell me where the thief hides these days. can simply let him know I'm on way. The man...owes me a dog.

I was on the road from Beregost to Athkatla, selling my wares at the usual stops, with the usual haul. Dishes, clothing, jewelry, and gems. Oddly enough, I had come into possession of a dog, however. Not my standard haul, but this beast was white and spotted black. People with coin tend to overpay for exotic things and I've never seen the breed. Hate dogs. Didn't want the filthy thing dirtying up my goods. I had a spare chain however and its legs worked just fine for me to drag it behind the wagon. Suppose I can't say drag. Can't sell a dead dog. Whenever it slowed it's pace however, I made sure my cane had a "conversation" with it. Had to feed the stupid beast too. Just enough to where it would make it to town, but starved enough to where it would still growl and snap at folks who got too close to my wares when I wasn't looking.

I still remember that night. The clouds were gray, giving way to a darker sky by the moment. The road was empty. The hooves of the horse made the only sound to pierce the eve. I still looked about make sure. The treeline could have held any number of brigands. I cursed when I turned around...

Eyes. I saw the golden yellow eyes of an animal on the road behind me. I almost reached for my crossbow when I'd made out the silhouette of a man. A man with the eyes of an animal. I pressed the horse on, creating distance. I denied myself sleep for a time until I knew I'd created enough distance between us. I set the wagon to the side of the road, and made camp. Kept my crossbow on my lap for the night. I couldn't find sleep at first. What was he...and why didn't the dog bark or growl?

I awoke to a brighter day. A grey day due to the clouds, but it was morning all the same. I must have nodded off. I ate my breakfast in the seat of the wagon, threw the beast its amount. Don't like wasting food, but I'd make my coin back soon enough. I moved the wagon out of the tree line, and back on the road. In that same moment, the man stepped from the trees and back on the road too. He made no attempts to pursue. He just...followed. He stopped when I stopped, ate when I ate, but never moved closer. Just watched from a distance, about twenty wagon lengths or so.

Night fell once more. I'd wanted to press on further, the cursed dog couldn't keep up. I raised my cane to thrash the animal once more, and that's when he moved closer. I could tell from his eyes, the way they flashed when the moonlight struck them just right as he slowly walked closer. I turned and aimed my crossbow and used the wagon to shield me with the fire at my back.

"I'll shoot, another step closer!" I called out.

He held his hands up and I'd heard the clink of glass. I could make him out now, barely. He'd carried two corked bottled in the same hand by their neck, both hands raised. He spoke in a deep voice with an accent I'd not heard in these parts often. I knew him as Gur immediately.

"I thought I'd share a drink, eh? Perhaps a story or two. Road's quite dark this time of year is it not? Wouldn't hurt to have another set of eyes around the fire on nights like this, no?"

Eyes like that I had no doubt he could see just fine. He'd carried Berduskan Dark in his grip. A favorite of mine. I raised the crossbow against my chest.

"Try anything odd gypsy, and I'll gift a bolt to your chest. You keep your hands where I can see them, I'll agree to it."

He nodded in agreement and strode past the dog, laying a hand to the top of its head as he looked down to it silently. He pet the starving vicious beast...and it had let him. I immediately went to raise my crossbow as he held his hands up once more, noting that the agreement stood. I'd need to watch him.

We talked for a time. He'd asked for the dog's price. Told him it was far higher than that of his means. I noted he had bought a bad batch of the Dark, tasted odd. Too bitter. I wasn't one to throw away free drink, however. His loss I thought. How wrong I was...

I was the one who had lost, when I woke up on the cold ground of the roadside that next day, my head feeling as if it might split. When my vision found me, the horse wasn't there. I checked my wagon. Everything was still there as far as I could tell. Then it struck me. I hopped off and made to move around the back. There was the chain, the end dangling where there was supposed to be a dog in it's grasp.

I cursed, I flailed, I kicked the wagon in my rage as I fell over onto the road side. My stomach lurched and I'd found myself on my hands and knees upon the grass to empty it. I wiped my mouth and the glint of one of the bottles caught my eye where it laid in the corner of my vision, lying in the grass. Within it, the stem and root of a plant ran down its center. I growled as I remembered then...

The man hadn't drank a drop."

Fiona Alders, a widowed farm owner. Spoken to over dinner in her home.
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"...I'm not in the position to give handouts you see, owning a farm whose workers were leaving by the day because "a woman can't run this farm alone". My husband had passed the previous harvest. Water in his chest. We had always wanted children, but Lathander never answered our prayers. I did the best I could with what I had though, yeah? But...I was slowly losing the battle to keep afloat. I couldn't help another, I couldn't even help myself. I did make one exception however, for one man. The one you're asking about. The man with the spotted hound.

It was storming something fierce that night. The thunder shook the house and at some point, a dripping from the roof started. I tossed in my bed, unable to find my dreams. A loud "crack" of the barn door outside found me sitting straight up. My animals were in there, along with my tools. Not something I could just ignore, right? I gathered my cloak and set out to close it. It would take me some time to settle the horses, let alone the other animals. I made to step outside when I saw the figure of a man slick with rain, closing my barn door behind him as he allowed himself and a spotted dog to slip inside.

My livelihood was in there. I was already struggling. If he had done something to the animals, stole anything important, it would most likely be enough to ruin me. I kept a wood splitting ax by the front door and approached the barn under the cover of the storm. I had no doubt the animals inside would cover the sound of my footsteps on the wet mud. I made to pull the barn door open slightly. I couldn't see anything in the dark barn. I made to open it slightly more, enough for me to squeeze in through the gap.

The wind took the door once more with a loud crack against the barn and that's when two golden yellow eyes turned on me and the collective noises of my farm animals made themselves known in a further betrayal of my not so stealthy entrance. I raised my ax as I moved in, realizing something was off. There wasn't a single noise from inside the barn before the door slammed open from the wind. An oil lamp came to light in the darkness as I saw the man gazing back and forth between me and my ax, and the dog lying on the ground staring at me as well. He had a bow on his back, a quiver at his hip, and armor that had seen use. Just then, the dog barked and I was so startled I dropped the ax. Unarmed, I ran back to the house, shutting the door. I leaned against it, gathering my breath. He could kill me. I didn't care if he stole anything or whatever his plan was, I just didn't want to die.

Behind my head I could feel and hear three light taps on the door. I jumped and pressed against it harder as I yelled out,

"What do you want? Take what you will and go!"

I'd heard a small thump on the wall next to the door and a moment of silence. Then I'd heard his voice on the other side of the door, right near my head as if he could see behind it and knew where to speak.

"You dropped your ax, eh? I'm simply returning it."

Arturi had stayed with me for next year. In time, we named each other friend. Nothing more than that mind you, I'd grown to know the man as family. Not at first. He's a quiet sort. We eventually found an understanding that in exchange for food and shelter he would work on my farm.

He knew his way around the animals, the horses especially. It's like he could talk with them, but he never he made a sound. He was valuable when it came to the tools. He'd fix them. If he couldn't, he'd re-purpose them. Between the both of us, it made things easier around the farm. He didn't eat much, and shared whatever he received with Sorcha. Don't give me that look, I fed the dog too. She was joy to be around the farm and I'd conceded that I wanted another around the place after spending time with her. Times weren't perfect, but they were good.

One night over our shared dinner, I looked across to him. He always ate in silence for the most part, always looking to the table, his plate, or under the table when he fed Sorcha. I realized while I knew what kind of person he was, I didn't know who he was. I set my fork down on the edge of my plate and found my voice.

"Arturi?" I'd said quietly.

"Hmm?", he'd replied in a way I'd expected.

"Why are you alone?" I asked, reserved. He set his fork down as I had done.

"Because while a wolf and dog are kin, they are not the same." He replied evenly.

I noted he had stopped eating now as I continued, "Which one are you?"

He looked up to me with that stare of his golden yellow eyes and I expected him to say "wolf".

"It doesn't matter, eh? We are different. It's because of that difference, that you and I are having a dinner that is beginning to get cold."

He picked up his fork once more looking down again, which told me that it was best to let it lie. I picked my own fork up, and conceded that I was just happy to eat my dinners with someone once more.

I told myself the day wouldn't come when Arturi and Sorcha had to leave. It arrived none the less. We said our farewells, and I'd sent him off with enough food for both of them to grow fat. I didn't cry...that much. We had broken an earlier embrace of a hug and I now watched him walk away. He turned and started walking backwards a few steps as he raised a hand to his mouth.

"I left something for you in the barn!", accompanied by a bark from Sorcha.

He smiled, turning once more to walk down the path that would end the time we had lived together. I made my way to the barn once they were both out of sight. Upon entering, I saw it laying on a hay bale. It was a wooden horse whittled and carved, no taller hand two hands width.

As you can see...the farm has workers now since my time with Arturi. We're doing well, and the farm is in the best shape it's been in a long time. I've not seen the man nor his dog since our last farewell, though a courier makes his way through here every once in awhile. There's no note. No message. There is always however, a small carved wooden horse under his arm..."

Fiona moves to grab one of the horses off of a nearby shelf, applying a good amount of force at it's neck. The piece splits into two parts, now revealing a separation by design. She sets it down to reveal a small stash hidden within of gold coins.

Kezia and Menowin Valdaska, cousin and uncle of Arturi. Spoken to while returning to the Valdaskan caravan from market.
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".... I'd almost forgotten about that, Kezia!" the man known as Menowin Valdaska said in his impossibly deep voice, followed by a rumble of laughter. "That boy could have passed for a tomato he was so embarrassed."

A contrast of light melodic laughter mingled with that of her fathers as Kezia spoke "I'm going to swat him so hard with the horse tether when he returns. What a fool, running off to the Coast. He won't survive a moon. Arturi is sensitive you see-"

She's cut off as Menowin interjects. "He's not sensitive, Keziah. He's Vadoma's son, your aunt's only child. You know exactly how tough she's been on him. He just... makes things more than they need to be. He's a man who is worried about the use of the blades he smiths, rather than their price or quality. This never sat right with Arturi, training and selling horses to send into battle and crafting tools designed to take away life. He's still to learn that men will continue to slay each other, or knock arrows at a new threat. It's not our place, nor our way to judge."

"I'm not saying he's made of glass." Keziah replied with a smirk. "After all, it was you who taught him everything he knows...Captain."

Menowin continues with "When Arturi was born....he was Valdaska, but he wasn't like us. He was born with grey blemishes from his neck to his arms and eyes unlike ours. We took his birth as an omen that we'd displeased Selune, but Vadoma reassured us again and again that his birth was a blessing in disguise. He was one of us...and also completely alone at the same time. That is how he thought too, I believe."

He frowns. "Regardless, every boy needs a man to guide him. Nephew or not. I only did what I thought would honor his father."

"He was frail and uncertain, so I taught him how to smith so that he may grow strong, and feel a sense of control while shaping the metal."

"He was oblivious and lost, so I taught him how to make a fire so that he may see during the darkest of nights and taught him how to track so that he may always find his way."

Keziah took over. "He faltered often, so you taught him how to tend a wound so that he would make decisions when they mattered most."

She looks to her father, then to the ground with a frown. "And then I... He was unhappy, so I taught him of the horses and what made them content. He said that he understood: The horses were happy when directed by a firm hand and taken care of... But some found a certain peace when allowed to run free...."

Menowin moved closer to wrap an arm around his daughter. He then said, "Aye, but he's Valdaska, and he belongs with us...with his family. Besides, Madame Vadoma has the final say of our caravan. And she's made it clear that she hasn't let go of his reins yet..."

Keziah smiled, "He'll come back to us...and then I'm going to hit him so hard between his stupid gold eyes...."

Gann Iaom, spoken to in an empty clearing on the edge of the woods.
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"...You ever cross paths with the Valdaskan caravan, you deny all dealings and you turn right around. The Gurs are a misjudged people, but you'd do well to believe all the darker rumors about that family you hear?

I couldn't stand to look at Arturi, not at first. A Valdaska. Save for his eyes and the star markings, lad looked just like his uncle Menowin did at his age, which made it no easier to shut out those memories from that night twenty some odd summers ago...

After my many years of soldiering, a wounded leg decided my retirement for me. A sense of adventure is what I desired, an escape from my now quiet life in the village. And I received it...through the mouths and tales of traveling Gurs, those named the Filiari who made camp in the woods on the edge of the viilage. They numbered about fifteen if I recall. I can't tell you if it was their curiosity or my constant bothering and bringing them spare firewood, but eventually we found each other as friends to waste away the summer days.

They were musicians by trade, and their viols, voices, and dances seemed to wash away all that was wrong with the world. They were a happy sort. I thought the first time we said our farewells, it would be the last I saw of them. Come the next summer they returned, and we picked up exactly where we left off.

That is, until the Valdaska caravan showed up, a train of strong horses, pack animals, and vardos that carried foreign herbs and plants held by rope netting, with the clanking of iron and tools that hung along the wagons sides. They numbered more than those of the Filiari, about twofold. Where the Filiari were outgoing and a openly passionate family, the Valdaskas were only stoic and reserved. Pleasant exchanges were made from both camps and they settled among each other for the coming days. As I had come to know the Filiari, I too had come to know the Valdaskas in time.

There were festivities one night. Music and laughter, a few little ones running about as stories were told in grand fashion. The women of both families were of an unearthly beauty, but none so much held a flame against Vadoma Valdaska, the head of the Valdaska family. Whispers told while she honored Selune, her true patronage was to "He of the Third Eye" and that she was gifted with a sort of vision...I believe "Sight" was the word they used. A blessed mystic in both skill and beauty, and one very drunk Filiari sought to make her his own.

I remember watching, laughing as she rejected his advances with wit and grace. I only saw the Filiari's knife because of the look on Vadoma's face, before the man grabbed her by the chin and began to threaten the poor woman. Her brother Menowin apparently saw it too, for the young caravan captain approached from between the vardos, an unfinished half-forged sword in hand which he swiftly struck the man down.

There was no more music, no more laughter, just the screams of fear and outrage of the Filiari caravans peoples. Quick movements from each side saw each family near their respective camp. I was facing the Filiari people at the time for I was among the Valdaska caravan when the man was killed. Through the chaotic din, one Filiari woman raised her voice above the others, and pointed at Menowin and Vadoma which brought a silence among both parties.

"How dare you Valdaskas? How do you spill the blood of the 'people' with such ease? Murderers, of your own kind!"

At this point I knew this accuser hadn't seen the knife, as I'm sure others hadn't as well.

"The gods and spirits as my witness, I curse yo- "

A still distraught and angry Vadoma cut the woman off with a shout that pierced the night, a dark fury in her own teary eyes.

"You would curse us? For a crime of your own? Is this the true face of the Filiari? The stars would do well not to shine on such faces! I will save them from that cruel fate."

I think I yelled out. I think I tried to say something. I can't remember. Just Vadoma's voice as she called out to the night, her hands moving of one familiar with the workings of magic.

...And the night air answered the head of the Valdaska caravan, rising from it's gentle sleep into that of an eerie fury in which she released upon the Filiari as the soil and rocks along with it removed flesh from bone. Those left standing were quickly beset upon by the remaining Valdaskas. I can't remember how long I stood there, before I was knocked unconscious from behind.

When I came to in the dewy clearing, dawn was approaching. The area was as it had been, before the arrival of the Gurs. The only leftover traces were that of the bonfire from the previous night, although the ground betrayed it was far larger than the one I had remembered. Among the ashes, remnants of vardo wheels and viols. Beyond the fire, the ground had been turned, a long strip of fresh soil marred the otherwise green clearing, no doubt the the final resting place of those once known as the Filiari...

I've heard rumors since then that my story, while unique, is not unlike similar dealings with the Valdaskas...

Village wells causing sickness to those that drank from their waters....and the arrival of a Gur caravan shortly after with tonics that cured the ailments perfectly. Well, for those with enough coin anyhow.

...Or the whispers of a village who openly shunned and drove them away for simply being Gurs, only when the caravan sought to hunker down nearby, due to a massive snowstorm making itself known. The villagers knew of their folly come spring when mercenaries wielding Valdaskan forged iron arrived. Sold for reduced cost as part of a contract, with the deaths of these villagers being the remaining payment Vadoma desired.

So now you see, why I couldn't bear to look upon Arturi, her son. Even his yellow eyes marked him as a beast, like the rest of his lot. I nearly slammed the door in his face despite all his pleading...but he mentioned that night from so long ago...

"I know what happened Gann Iaom, and I know you did nothing to stop it."

Thinking back on it, I think he said what he did so our talk would not end there. Clever. I opened the door, trying to find words for my anger, but he wouldn't allow me a word in.

"I walk free of the caravan. Free of their decisions. I'm not them, Gann Iaom. Please, hear me."

The lad was on his own, headed to the Sword Coast. He knew without the protection of his caravan and his family, he was defenseless. He'd heard from Menowin in idle tales, of the retired soldier that befriended Gurs, and sought to learn how to take care of himself. He also remarked that he no longer wished to "stand by and do nothing, should the time come", the nerve...

"If we do this, I have a price."

"Name it." Arturi said.

"As a Valdaska, you will never forge another sword, nor wield one unless you have no other option to protect your life, or that of another. Spears can be used for hunting and fishing for one's family, hammers for crafting, axes for felling trees. Even as weapons, these can serve a purpose outside of taking another person's life should the wielder choose. A sword only seeks blood, and the Valdaskas know their fill of it."

He stared at me a long while before relenting. "You've my word."

"You ever shot a bow, Arturi?"

"No, Gann Iaom."

"Then we'll start tomorrow...and call me Gann."

He made to enter my cottage. I swiftly shut the door, hearing a thump which was no doubt a forehead, followed by what sounded to be exclamataion of a man who just tumbled off a doorstep.

We were at it for days. I can tell you, I know a talented archer when I see one. Arturi was not. I nestled a jug between the branch and trunk of a tree about thirty paces away. He never hit it. I watched him, his technique as most instructors do...but I noticed something. I didn't see a warrior fighting for cause or country. I saw a man uncertain of his choices, fear of an unknown path willingly chosen.

"Arturi. Give me your quiver, but keep one arrow."

The look I received was one to remember.

"I want you to fire this arrow, at anything, at nothing. With it, I want you remember why you came here and why you left your people. Take all your fears, all your doubts, all your hopes, all that you are thinking, and put these in this arrow. When you're ready, loose it."

He was still a moment, as was I, and all lay silent in the field. An arrow flew through the air and landed in the nearby soil. Arturi turned to look at me. I figured it was worth trying, at least.

Then he approached, snatched the quiver from my hand, and proceeded to fire arrows one at a time at absolutely nothing with a rapid pace, as though each carried with it a piece of him that he wished to leave behind. The last arrow he took his time with. He stilled his labored breaths. He closed his eyes as a tear rolled down his face before opening them once more. Had he truly harbored this much sorrow, this much guilt? He seemed to let it all go, the last of everything that haunted him, for just this one arrow. The Gur standing before me was not the same green lad that showed up on my doorstep that first night.

He loosed, and the arrow struck the tree branch a hair below the jug.

It was a start. I felt the need to break the silence.

"Never draw that bow without remembering today, for every arrow you loose defines the the man you are, the man you've left behind, and the man you one day hope to become. Sometimes it's best to not draw it at all, but remember Arturi, you always have a choice."

I couldn't help but laugh at the poor lad's face when I told him we'd start with staves and clubs the following day and that my old armor just might fit him..."


My mother once said "You have two ears, two eyes, and one mouth. These are best used in that measure."

Arturi more often than not tends to appear quiet, reserved, and unopinionated. While the first two are natural qualities for him, he leans heavily into all three for a single purpose: to not draw attention to himself. For those who have shared more than a few conversations with the Gur, if one were to look back in hindsight, they might notice that their exchanges were more one sided than they remember.

Born to nomadic gypsies, the Gurs have known their share of persecution and prejudice, which in turn explains much of of Arturi's reclusiveness. Much of his world view stems from this. He holds to a silent belief that while all people have the ability to be kind, generous, and understanding, they are all too often cruel, self-serving, and are prone to impetousness. However, Arturi does not harbor resentment for people in general, believing that these shortcomings are due to true naivety.

Arturi is a stoic individual, believing that all burdens presented to him are his to bear, and his alone. Taught from a young age that outsiders to his people's way of life are to be kept at a distance, Arturi finds himself reluctant to reach out, preferring to weather many of his problems on his own. This holds false when it comes to those he holds dear, and would shoulder their burdens with or for them should he be asked or allowed.

For all who have crossed Arturi's path, they have no doubt met the spotted canine Sorcha. The dalmatian can at times prove playful, good-natured, quick to kindness, and can often be noted as being in contrast with her companion. Her connection with Arturi betrays a deeper realization however: outside the view of others there is no contrast, for Sorcha's behavior is a product of Arturi's affection.

Arturi holds the concept of honor in high value, and with that, tries to convey a level of respect to any he deals with. While seemingly a contradiction to the isolationism of his people, he was taught to view that all are equal under Selune's light and does his best to uphold the ideal of acceptance in any and all those he crosses paths with, even though at times he may fall short of such practices.

Arturi harbors many ideals and beliefs, but he often falls victim as many do of not being able to hear his own words. Any advice he offers to others, he would seldom heed the same unto himself. This hypocrisy can often prove to be a sore note for the Gur, as it causes him to question his own person more so than is often already done. Arturi suffers from a low self-esteem and a good dose of stubbornness, preferring to often to distance himself immediately from those who would criticize him, holding a passive and silent grudge for a time determined based upon the "offense".

Arturi is a being of duality in many aspects. He was born to a human tribe, but his notable differences of celestial heritage mark him different from his kin, something he often resents. He is a thinker with no answers. He has his convictions, but they are often measured. He favors the isolation the wilderness offers and feels a connection the wildlife therein, but growing up in a caravan in constant proximity of his family he often misses the sense of community cities and towns can foster. There are many other aspects, but among all else, Arturi often holds to the past believing it defines him, while at the same time hoping to rise above it.


  • Find a new home on the Coast.
  • Get in touch with the Gur Community of Baldur's Gate.
  • Learn of the customs of other peoples.
  • Learn to drop the "Us vs. Them" mentality instilled by his family. Arturi has started to open up to others...mostly.
  • Assist with efforts related to the defense of the Coast and it's peoples, through combat or occupational skills.
  • To earn gold in order to support his friend, Fiona.

Miscellaneous Facts and Player Notes:
  • Arturi has a minor case of claustrophobia.
  • Arturi seeks guidance with the Mystic Margaretta in the Wide of Baldur's Gate every full moon.
  • Arturi's mother whispered his real name into his ear at birth, only known between the two of them. It is a superstitious tradition to prevent fey or spririts from gaining power over him.
  • Arturi's Gur heritage is loosely based off the little information I could find on the Gur, with touches of "diluted" Vistani, and influenced some by real world Roma alongside my own twists.
  • Arturi's skillsets mimic those of the Kaldresh tribes of the Vistani through the metal work of the Kamii, the natural world connection of the Equaar, and the healers of the Vatraska.


Last edited by Requiem on Wed Jul 15, 2020 10:29 am, edited 61 times in total.
Arturi Valdaska - Nomadic Smith, Horse Whisperer, Medicinal Herbalist, and Tracker
One of the "People of the Highway" and forever a "Child of Selune"


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Re: Arturi Valdaska

Unread post by Requiem »

((Updated a few things and edited for clarity))


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Posts: 55
Joined: Sat Jul 13, 2019 5:31 pm

Re: Arturi Valdaska

Unread post by Requiem »


-Added Personality
-Added Quotes
-Added another (longer than I set out to be :lol: ) background story, as told by "Gann Iaom".


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